July 20, 2008

Rose Marie Dunphy's essays and articles have been published in THE NEW YORK TIMES, NEWSDAY, THE CHRISTIAN SCIENCE MONITOR and numerous magazines. She co-authored THAT FIRST BITE - CHANCE OR CHOICE, a non-fiction book about eating disorders.An excerpt from her completed novel, ORANGE PEELS AND COBBLESTONES appeared in THE EAST HAMPTON STAR under the title Expectations.

In the novel ORANGE PEELS AND COBBLESTONES, Rose Marie Dunphy utilizes her experience living in Italy and America to create a tale of turbulent family relationships. Born in a small town in Puglia, she is versed in the language and culture of both the U.S. and Italy and travels frequently to her native land to visit extended family.

Rose Marie received her Master’s Degree from Stony Brook University and attended the Southampton College Summer Writing Workshop, among other writing seminars.A former New York State teacher licensed in English and Science, she ran her own Public Relations firm and taught classes for adults in Italian.A married mother of four, she divides her time between New York, Montauk, Hawaii and Italy.

Eight-year-old Marietta spotted her father and gasped. Herfirst reaction was to hide behind her cousins at the end of thejump-rope line, but when he neared, her heart skipped a beat. Shedidn’t know whether to run into his arms or remain out of view.The pattern of her parents’ attempts to mend their broken marriagewas too familiar. They’d argue, he’d leave abruptly and, a weeklater, her mother Stella would move her and baby sister Pia back toCastellaneta.

But as the lean, handsome man now approached, Marietta hoped thatPapa recognized her. Would he lift her off the line and raise herinto his arms as half of her wanted or as half of her feared?She stepped forward to find out. To her surprise, he brushedpast her as if she were invisible. With a fresh bouquet ofwildflowers in one hand and a tight fist in the other, he bolted upthe clean steps two at a time, his red, wavy hair bouncing acrosshis forehead until he reached the top landing. He knocked and hergrandmother, Nonna, stiffened as she opened the door. They stoodon the platform for several minutes exchanging words in subduedtones. Then, as if he made his first conquest, Antonio walked inand the door shut behind him.

Moments later the door re-opened.

"Marietta, vieni sopra. Come upstairs,” Nonna called. Thechild’s heart raced as a bitter taste rose from her stomach to hermouth. Thankfully Nonna met her at the door and, clutching herhand, caressed the top of her head. “Your father wants to seeyou,” she said.

The minute Antonio saw his daughter he knelt on one knee, openinghis arms. His face was tanned and rugged but his hands were longand smooth. Marietta always admired them because they werecapable of lifting her up into the air and she liked the rush in herchest when he catapulted her above his head.

But now she was afraid. Her eyes turned to Nonna, whom shetrusted. With her nod, the little girl walked closer into thecircle of her father’s arms.

“My little Marietta, how you have grown! Will you come livewith your Papa?” he asked misty-eyed, as if he were the child.

"Will Mamma and Pia come too?” she asked.

“Certamente. Certainly. I’ve come to take all of you backhome. I’ve just explained to your grandmother that I want us to bea family again.” How Marietta wanted that too. Yet the only placeshe found family was here with Nonna. “When your mother returnsfrom her job at the florist, I’ll tell her about my work in SanDemetrio. I know how to make the best wine. I was also lucky atcards. I’m a brand new man with money and a job.” He smackedhis hand across his chest and waved it in the air as if it were a flag.

Marietta was surprised to see her grandmother at a loss forwords. Her silence spoke.

Stella’s father and brothers, too, were angry once they heardAntonio had returned. The whole next day the family huddled inheated conversations that ended in shouting bouts. They shooktheir heads in disbelief. How dare he come back? There was noproof of a job, no amount of money saved, nothing that showed hehad changed. Only words. Words don’t put food on the table orclothes on the children’s backs. Why, she should throw the bum outas quickly as he had come.

Each time Marietta entered the house, Nonna placed her finger onher mouth to hush her sons. It was obvious she didn’t want toupset the child. But the tension created a thick web and Mariettawas often caught in it.

“Good for nothing, drunk, gambler.” Marietta knew the wordsreferred to her father when her uncles spewed them out. “Deludeddreamer” described her mother. The words traveled like arrowsacross the air and pierced her, and as much as she tried to shakethem off, she couldn’t.

“What about the time he threw the loaf of bread and hit you rightin your pregnant belly? The child you lost – have you thought ofthat?” Pasquale reminded his sister.

“Yes, but he’d had too much to drink,” Stella argued. “He’d justleft his third job in six months. He was desperate. You drinktoo. I’ve seen you drunk at Mama’s table many times,” she criedout of breath, her chest heaving up and down. “It’s not his faulthe lost at gambling. He thought he could make money at it.”

“He never will,” Nonna shouted. Then, in a gentler voice, sheadded, “Stella, no one wants your happiness more than me. Butyou’ve made a mistake. You should have listened from thebeginning, when we told you to stay away from Antonio. Insteadyou sneaked off together. Don’t keep making the same mistake.Find a new life for yourself. You’ve got the children to think about.”

“What about the knife he put to your throat the last time?”Nonno said gravely. “That’s why you escaped from him in themiddle of the night.” He forgot reason and grew visibly angry athis daughter’s naiveté. How could she turn out so differently fromhis other children?

“Stop it! I can’t stand it,” Stella shouted. “You’re alwaystelling me what to do, how to run my life. He’s changed,” shesaid. “Can’t you see he’s changed? I’ve got everything to gainif it works out and nothing to lose if it doesn’t. What do I havehere? Nothing. I’m miserable and poor, dependent on your charity.I’m tired of your charity. I want my own life!”

Marietta felt sorry for her mother. She wanted to do somethingnice. Perhaps she’d stir the sugar for her morning coffee or helptake care of Pia instead of playing with her cousin Lucia.Eventually Stella and the rest of the family would see eye to eyeand peace would return.

“We can hope we’re wrong. Perhaps Antonio has turned a newleaf. Who are we to deprive Stella of another chance to pull herlife together?”

The next morning before dawn, aunts, uncles and cousins assembledat Nonna’s door. As Antonio gathered the suitcases for the trainthat would take them back to his hometown, the family plantedsleepy kisses on both sides of Stella’s cheeks and hugged Mariettaand Pia goodbye.

“Buona fortuna – Good luck,” whispered Nonna.

“Have a safe trip,” her sister, Maria, said.

Marietta wanted to stay in Nonna’s warm bed and wake up to hersmile. For two years Castellaneta had been her home. She lovedthe cobblestone street beneath the steps of this eleven hundredyear-old house that had become hers. She felt wanted here. Shechose to belong to it, as though she’d been a part of its antiquityfrom the very beginning.

To Marietta, Nonna symbolized the world and all that was good init. No other person cared about her as much as this white-hairedgrandmother whose Christian name was Anna. She was Marietta’sanchor, providing security and stability, loving and guarding thechild as if she might disappear at a moment’s notice.

And now she would.

“I’ll write to you,” Lucia said.

When they reached the train station, Antonio cautioned hisfamily. “Sit here while I purchase the tickets.” Pia lay inStella’s arms, her mouth wetting her mother’s clothing as itsearched wildly for her milk. Stella obliged her. She unbuttonedher blouse and directed the nipple toward Pia who gripped it with avengeance before relaxing into a rhythmic sucking.

Marietta wished she could be as carefree as Pia. She alreadymissed Nonna. In the darkness there was no Lucia to play with. Ifonly her mother had married someone in her own town as Nonna’sother children had. Then they’d never have to leave the family inthe middle of the night and go far away.

The four reached San Demetrio, a town high in the mountains ofCalabria, and had to adapt to the cold, unfriendly air, not unlikethe head of their new house, Antonio’s mother. The old womanknew two emotions: displeasure and anger: But once a month,when a cardboard box wrapped in heavy hand-sewn muslinarrived from her daughter in America, she jumped up like aschoolgirl to claim it. The sugar, coffee and cocoa it containedwere dear to her.

Marietta relished the cocoa. When her grandmother took naps,she quietly stacked two kitchen chairs in front of the cupboard andclimbed up to reach the canister on the top shelf where the cocoawas hidden. There, Marietta helped herself with an oversized spoon.

It didn’t take long for Antonio’s mother to notice the preciouscocoa drop in level. “I’ll teach you not to steal,” she yelled,raising her cane in the air. But Marietta was too fast for the oldwoman to catch.

One day, however, Antonio’s mother pretended to fall asleep.When Marietta climbed to the cupboard and was about to lick upspoonfuls of cocoa, the old woman sprang up like a fox disturbedfrom its lair. Marietta caught the swift movement from the cornerof her eye. She immediately stuffed a mouthful down her throat,jumped off the chair and dashed under the double bed, crouchinginto the furthest corner possible.

“I’ll get you,” the old woman threatened, running after her. Hercane swished back and forth but it could not reach Marietta. Thegrandmother soon tired from bending over and, in disgust, went torest on her chair in the kitchen where she eventually fell asleepfor real. Marietta crawled out from under the bed without fear.

When Antonio returned from his job picking grapes – notmaking wine as he had told Stella - the house was transformed. Heentered through the unlocked door and caught everyone off guard.Marietta had learned to expect him at odd times, for he rarely camehome. Where he ate and slept, she couldn’t imagine. But when hechose to show his face, she’d usually be setting the table whileStella stood in front of the stove stirring pasta in the pot ofboiling water. The grandmother rocked in her chair by the fire andPia cooed in a blanket on the floor. Suddenly, Antonio appeared,lifting them out of the stupor of their daily existence. He alwaysbrought presents.

“For the most beautiful woman in the world,” he’d say to Stella,keeping one hand hidden behind his back. Marietta watched hermother fall into his arms, instantly gratified with whatever was init, perfume, a comb or silk scarf. Then Antonio would turn to hismother. Like a knight, he’d bend on one knee and gallantly kissthe back of her hand. Turning it palm up, he’d place in it a boxof Perugini chocolates, her favorite. She would rise, groaning,lifting her short, round frame, and immediately hide the box.

“Oh, and what do I have here?” he’d say next, with hands roamingand searching his jacket pockets. A pretend frown hid his smile.“What, indeed, do I have here?” he’d repeat, twinkling his eyes,pulling out shiny pink, blue and red ribbons. “Oh, who could bepretty enough to wear these lovely presents?” He held theribbons high in the air, looking left, looking right, in everydirection but Marietta’s. She rushed around him, turningevery which way to catch his eyes.

“For me, Papa? Could they be for me and Pia?”

“Pia is too young for ribbons. When she wakes up, shecan have a chocolate. But these,” he explained, “These are ve-ryspe-cial.” He stretched out his arms pulling the ribbons as ifthey were dough.

“The shopkeeper said they’re fit for a princess. Only thosewhose name begins with M are worthy enough to…”

“Mine begins with M. Mine begins with M,” she’d shriek.

Antonio let go and freed the ribbons. As they floated in the spacebetween them, before landing in her hands, Marietta made a mentalnote to share them with Pia. Then, bending down, he grabbed her bythe waist, lifted her high in the air and squeezed her against hismuscled chest.

A lot has changed in baseball today. Joe Torre's in Los Angeles, Joe Girardi's back in pinstripes, and both Shea and Yankee stadiums are coming down. For added shock, it's been 50 years since the Dodgers broke every heart in Brooklyn by moving away.

But the love for the game and the memories remain.Years ago at the breakfast table, my son discussed the Mets lineup of each new season as if he controlled the roster. My ears perked up. I was there, too, kicking up the dirt near home plate, picking up the bat and swinging it.

I thought I'd lost that by growing up, a mother busy with four children. But no, my eyes displayed his sparkle, my voice matched his lilt. Baseball was in the air, as it was when I was young.

In winter we brightened quiet hours by turning on the VCR and reliving the great baseball moments of 1986. Like game six of the playoffs between the Mets and the Astros, where every lead was never enough, and game six of the World Series, when Mookie Wilson's hit slipped through Billy Buckner's legs. The fans were as exhausted as the players. Best of all, the Mets won the title.

We spent many summers with the Amazing Mets. At the ballpark, we leaned forward in the 9th inning of a scoreless game with the winning run on base. At home, I lounged on the easy chair in the den, my son sprawled on the brown rug beneath my feet. We cheered. We shouted. We told the players what to do.

There was plenty of time to talk between pitches. I recalled "the magic pillow" I used to sit on to bring good luck to the Dodgers. He said he'd major in business when he grew up, with Fordham, Manhattan or NYU as possible college choices. Quietly we accepted a future that we couldn't see, along with batting averages and runs scored.

All this was reminiscent of a time when I was the child sprawled on the rug and the occupant in the easy chair was my father. We were in our Brooklyn living room then, as dens were nonexistent. When the Dodgers played, my father and I saw them on a 12-inch black-and-white RCA set, with a Victrola below it and cabinet doors that closed when not in use.

How he loved those Brooklyn Dodgers! I can still see my father, beer in hand, shout in a strong Brooklyn accent, "C'mon youse bums!" It was nothing short of genuine affection that he felt.

How he hated and feared those New York Giants and Yankees! When the Dodgers played against them, The Brooklyn Eagle ran front-page declarations of war. The year my father talked about most was 1955, when the Dodgers won the Series after so many "wait 'til next year" dreams.The stadium then was Ebbets Field. Small compared to Shea, but every inch a ballpark - 297 feet down the line to the 40-foot rightfield wall that Carl Furillo owned.

My father and I had plenty of time to talk between pitches. He'd tell me childhood stories - how the teacher he hated got promoted with him three years in a row, how he could buy jelly doughnuts for a penny apiece. I told him I'd like to be a doctor someday. We quietly accepted a future we couldn't see, along with batting averages and runs scored.

Seasons have a way of revolving. Duke, Pee Wee, Gil Hodges and Campy closed Ebbets Field. Jose, Johan, Wright, Beltran and Delgado will shut Shea. I became my father. My son became me.

In generations to come, I hope a scene exists where my son sits on the easy chair while his child lies sprawled on the rug. They'll talk of themselves, their dreams and quietly accept a future they cannot see, along with batting averages and runs scored.

THE LOGIC OF FOODYOUR FEELINGS AND YOUTHE IMPORTANCE OF HONESTYCONTROL GAMES PEOPLE PLAYWHEN YOU CONTROL OTHERSWHEN OTHERS CONTROL YOUTHE PARADOX OF CONTROLYOUR ATTITUDES AND YOUTHE POWER TO CHOOSETHE RIGHT TO SET BOUNDARIESFORGIVING YOURSELF AND OTHERSGODBECOMING YOUR OWN PERSON

July 19, 2008

I just finished reading The Painter From Shanghai by Jennifer Cody Epstein for two reasons. The first is that it was my friend's book club's selection for the month and no one liked it. In fact, some didn't finish reading it. I was curious to find out why and whether I'd like it. The second reason was purely technical. The book begins at the end of the subject's life and then goes back in time to the subject's beginnings and chronicles her life. It's a technique I could use for my novel, Orange Peels & Cobblestones.

It was an interesting novel in that the story is of a real person, Pan Yuliang, but the author used creative license to dramatize events in the painter's life. There were parts of the novel that I liked, for example Yuliang's relationship to her husband and to her art. But, in places, the book seemed to take on the feel of a history text and I found myself disinterested. I've read historical novels before and enjoyed them but, in Painter, I found more of a great divide between fiction and fact, rather than the blend that makes historical novels so enticing. Also, the book reminded me too much of Memoirs of a Geisha, which I found distracting.

One line from the book, however, made my reading it worthwhile: "Our wounds are what drive us to create." I could ponder on this for hours. Even write an article about it. There so much in the short sentence.